“Laws!” said Scip, who stood near, listening in wonder to the trapper’s words, “did ye ever kill enny Injuns, sah?”
The trapper turned, and drawing his tall, ungainly form to its full hight, gazed on the negro in dead silence for a few moments, evidently too much astonished to speak, at this exhibition of ignorance and apparent incredulity.
“Africa,” he said, solemnly, after an impressive pause, “did ye ever eat any pertaters?”
“Reckon I hab,” said Scip, with a broad grin, “’bout forty bushels a year.”
“Wal,” continued the trapper, planting his rifle down solemnly, and gesticulating with his left hand, “I reckon thet for every pertater ye eat, I hev knocked down, tipped over, dragged out, sculped, mewtilated, an’ otherwise disfiggered, one dozen Injuns. An’ I’m good for as menny more.”
During this address, Scip stood listening, with the grin on his black face gradually expanding, until, as Vic told him, his “mouth war in danger of runnin’ inter his ears,” and when the trapper finished speaking, he stood silent for a moment, evidently thinking how to express an opinion without giving offense. At last he broke out with:
“Sah, am dar any Injuns left?”
“Plenty of them,” responded Nathan; “they’re thicker’n skeeters in August.”
“Wal, den,” said Scip, after a moment, “I don’t b’lieve ye ever killed a dozen for every tater I eat. What did ye do wid dar sculps, jest tell dis chile dat, will ye?”
Vic came up before the trapper had time to reply, and called him away to participate in a council, the result of which was that the train lay by, while twelve of the best men, led by Wild Nat, were to take the trail. After considerable trouble this was found, and traced for about thirty rods, where the captors had evidently joined a party of nearly or quite two hundred. From there the trail was so cleverly covered that when, after going a short distance, it struck a sandy tract, only partially grassed, it broke into three sections, thus baffling pursuit for a rescue.